


Scars And Nightmares

by Travellingthestars



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Army!John, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-08-08
Packaged: 2017-12-15 04:03:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Travellingthestars/pseuds/Travellingthestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Tell me, John.” Sherlock smiled, nosed at John’s jaw, the post coital glow still warming his skin. “Tell me a secret. Tell me something you’ve never told anyone else.” John smiled, rolled onto his side, knees tucked up slightly, hand resting on Sherlock’s hip, thumb drawing slow circles. “What kind of a secret?” His voice was lowered, as if the entirety of the time between them was a secret, to be kept precious and hidden from the rest of the world. In a way, he supposed, it was. “I don’t know,” Sherlock began. “Something I can’t deduce, couldn’t know, from looking at you.” John considered a moment. “I think you know everything.” The amused snort came quickly. “No, John. Not everything.” Sherlock grinned, lips curving, feeling flattered, almost. “Well, then? What don’t you know?”<br/>Sherlock considered, eyes glinting as he appraised John carefully, wandering through the rooms of his mind palace, finding the gaps. “How, exactly, did you get your scar?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Scars

**Author's Note:**

> Well this started life as part of a roleplay, and things escalated from there rather quickly. As usual, all characters belong to Gatiss, Moffat and Sir ACD, who I'm sure would hate me for all the things I've made his boys do. Beta'd by the wonderful Nat, whom I'd link to, but I don't know how, so find her at sherlockintheshire.tumblr.com because that is where she lives. Yep. Good.

John tensed a moment, his fingers clutching clumsily at Sherlock’s hipbones. He closed his eyes, getting himself under control, sighed as he slowly relaxed. It didn’t take a moment to bring the memories to mind, and then he murmured, voice raspy. "It's hot. Hot and dry, and my throat hurts. I'm coated in sweat, everything aches. I'm not ill- haven't been ill, not since I was sixteen. My shoulder moves freely, doesn't hurt. Completely uninjured, aside from the odd scratch and scrape. That’s to be expected, like, with where I am, everything that’s happening. My hands are steady...

“There's sand. So much fucking sand, it gets every-bloody-where. I’ve not been free of sand for a year and a half- I take it back with me on leave, in my clothes, my bags, my hair. It seems ingrained into my skin, honestly, you can’t get rid of the damn stuff. It feels like you’re breathing it in almost, and I suppose that’s what makes my throat hurt and everything seem so dry.

“We've all put aside the guns, the jackets, helmets, even. We’re not supposed to, but... There's a... It's not quite a lake, but it's water. Open water, still. Not a river. I don’t know where it comes from, I just know it’s fairly cool, and clear, surrounded by a couple of low trees and it's otherwise alone in an empty landscape. The first time I saw it I swore it was a mirage. It's not far from base- you can see the low compound, the scattering of tents outside, the almost marquee of the field hospital overspill… But it's far enough that they don't come looking for us.

“There’re two lads playing cards. Jonathan- he's barely a man, just nineteen. He keeps losing, can't see that Davies is bluffing. He didn't learn poker till last week, he's still a kid. No clue." He opened his eyes briefly as he trailed off, but their bedroom contrasted too starkly with the images in his head- Afghanistan as he’d seen it, through his eyes. His lids flickered shut again, and when he began to talk once more, the words came unbidden as he built the war for him, for Sherlock, letting him see.

 

"Some of them- Andrews, Bennett, they've got this rugby ball. We had a kick around earlier, it's why I'm sweaty, aching. I'm fitter than ever, but Jesus, some of the lads are built like tanks and the muscles I use day to day here just aren't the same as the ones you use playing rugby. It's been years since I played properly. I captained the team in college, still played in uni. Might've got signed, some of the lads think I would have, but the war called…” He paused, lips twitching in a half smile.

“They keep laughing- Andrews won't let Bennett have the ball- Bennett's a twig, tiny bloke, all angles. His hair's white blonde and it catches the sun. He's older than Jonathan, but he looks younger. Much younger, barely sixteen. Andrews is tossing it about, it's like piggy in the middle, but with grown men and it looks so stupid, I have to laugh. Andrews tosses it to me, I toss it back…

“The sun, it’s so fucking hot, and the game’s done with, Bennet caught the ball, so I get up, begin to strip down- the rest of the lads are swimming, now, and it’s too much of a good idea not to join them. Easing the heat, half of them in just their pants, others in their shorts, nobody's naked though. There's only two girls here- they're as much lads as the rest of us, but we don't swim naked when they're around out of courtesy. They're both sunbathing, not paying attention, but it's the unspoken rule. I'm down to shorts- and we're not supposed to do this, none of us. We should be ready, all the time, ready. But the raids- they've been going well. We cycle through three villages, and our walkthroughs have been clear- nobody doing anything they shouldn't be. There's not even been an IED for about a month and a half." He swallowed, shifted his position, curling in a little tighter on himself, preparing for what came next. Sherlock had faded, John was barely doing more than talking to himself, reliving it all.

 

"I get as far as waist deep. It's deep enough to go right under, in the middle, that's what I was aiming for. A few seconds of nothing but cool water. I love doing that, sinking under, so you can’t hear or see or feel anything but cool, smooth light. I don't get that far, in up to my waist, soaking my shorts, when Nick- he's my right hand, when I'm working in the medic's tent- he comes running. Barely a second later we hear the siren from base. Nick's not even got the words out of his mouth- ‘It's a raid, boys.’ and there's an explosion. It must have been right outside the compound, I don't know how they got so close without our blokes noticing, but the ground shakes and we see the smoke, and we're running, all of us running. I'm grabbing my things, pulling them on as I go, and all I can think is that my shorts are wet and my superior's going to know, and it's slowing me down and there's all the goddamn sand stuck to my legs, and it itches, it's so insignificant but God, it's all I can think and…”

 

He stopped, running out of breath, the words already half choking him, memories thick. He couldn’t get what he wanted to say out fast enough, he felt like he was purging it all, he could already anticipate the relief of getting it out in the open.

 

 “We get back to the compound and I can hear the shouting. I run to the hospital- it's where I'm stationed, at the moment. We go on cycles, the medics. Four teams, twenty of us to a team, and within that twenty we take shifts, on-duty medic, off-duty, on-duty reserve medic, on-duty reserve front line, off-duty. I'm in reserve- it means I don't need to be there unless there's a raid, when there's more injuries, when I'm needed, and I'm half way there, and my superior, he stops me, grabs me by the shirt. ‘You're needed on the front.’ I don't even question it. But it's bad- if there's been a raid, one enough for all this fuss, but they don't need the reserve medics? Too many dead, too many injured bad enough to be taken out, out to the hospital in the city. We must be thirty odd men down, and there's only a hundred and fifty odd of us anyway. So I'm running back out, to the 'copters, to go into the village." A brief pause here, whilst John wetted his lips, nodded, as though checking with himself that what he’d said so far was right.

 

"It's nothing new, not really. I've never been switched off post before, but this run to the 'copters, to the village, it's nothing new in itself. I'm scared. We're all scared, always scared. You'd be an idiot if you weren't. It doesn't show though. There's adrenaline, and that helps, we're all buzzing, all high on it. That's what we are, really. We're not soldiers, we're junkies. Living to die, that's the point. There are men here who never planned to come out of it alive- who don't want to. Some will, some won't, but it gave us all something to live for, for a while longer. Even me, and I always meant to come home, but God, the high’s a rush…

“We're waiting, and it's routine. Out the 'copter, splitting out, I'm captain and I've four men. Four men beneath me, assigned to me, but we're a team. We know each other, well. There's Nick, and he's still my right hand. Points out my flaw when I tell them to hide, behind this wall, it's dry stone, and they've got grenades- not proper ones, badly made. They're full of shrapnel anyway, and he's right, the dry stone shatters far too easily, and so we move where he suggests. It's this house, barely more than a hut, but it's a good vantage point. Doesn't offer as much cover, but it’s enough and it's less likely to just crumble under attack.

“There's gunfire, and we're shooting back, and that's routine too, but we can't hit them straight, can't get a good aim from here. I send two of the lads round, across the street, so it’s just me and Nick by the hut. They take out one of the rebels, and we don't know how many are left but it's a lull, and Nick, he's a big one for congratulations, so he stands up to call to our guy who shot the man down, tell him well done, good hit, make a joke- ‘How about you hit the others now, n'all?’ He starts to say it, and I laugh, cause I know how it's ending, and then he stops. I hadn't even heard the gun fire, but suddenly he's clutching his stomach, and there's blood seeping between his fingers.

“He looks at me, and he laughs. He laughs, and stops holding himself, stumbles backwards, out from behind the hut, into the open. I follow- I can see it, what I need to do, I'm already going through options in my head. It's probably avoided any major organs- the bullet, we pack the wound, bandage it, get him into a 'copter, he'll be at the hospital in under twenty minutes.

“I’m knelt over him, beginning to put pressure on it, and he keeps batting my hands away. He’s talking, but I can’t hear it, and then he says my name and I look at him, at his face. ‘Stop it, Johnny’

“He always calls me that, Johnny. Everyone does, actually, out here, and it's nice, it's what Harry called me when we were kids, and they're my brothers, every single one of them. ‘Stop it, Johnny. Wastin' your bandages.’ I shake my head, begin to explain, tell him the plan, what we're going to do, but he just grips my hands, his red and slippery with blood. ‘Shut up, Johnny, you bastard, m'tryin' to tell you summat important!’ I laugh, and I'm crying, but it doesn't matter. We all cry, and it's fine.

“The blood's spreading, we're soaked with it, and I know he's right. Getting him out of this is wishful thinking. ‘Alright, mate, go on, spit it out.’ He laughs, and he's crying too, and he drags me down, pulls me closer, so it takes less effort to talk.” John took a breath, chewed on his lower lip, and this time when he spoke his voice was a little different, a little tighter, tense, pained.

 

“‘Tell my Emmaline-‘ He begins. That's his girlfriend. She's pregnant, he keeps the ultrasound picture in his pocket. And it hits me, this was his last tour, he'd be going home in a month, and now there's a little girl without a daddy, and a woman without her lover. ‘Tell my Emmaline... No little girl of mine's wearing pink, a'right? She'll wear khakis like her Pa, kay, Johnny? Tell her I loved her, yeah, tell her about the picture, in m’pocket.’

“He shifts his grip to my neck, holding me tighter, nails digging into my skin, and he can't quite breathe now, but it's fine, he'll say what he needs to say. ‘Buy her a pint, Johnny, and tell her to let my little girl know that daddy loves her, yeah? Buy yourself one. Tell my ma... Tell her I'll look after my Granda' and her sister, yeah? Tell her I'm in the flowers, yeah? Them daisies that she likes, the bright 'uns... And my da, John, you gotta' tell my da that he did good, yeah? Raising me and Eddy, tell him he did good. And Eddy, he needs... he needs to get his grades, yeah, so he can write his books and make a mint, look after Mam and Da.’

“He coughs, and there's more blood, but he's not done yet. ‘You got that, Johnny?’ I nod, and so does he, and he laughs again, but it's followed by a groan. ‘God, stop messin' about, I'm done, you little bastard, take me out...’ He's talking to the God he still believes in, and I drop my forehead to his, and he smiles again. ‘You're a good man, Johnny.... Best mate I ever had... Drinks on me, yeah? N’get yourself a nice boyfriend.’ I shake my head, open my mouth and he goes, ‘Shut up, Johnny. You're a lad's lad, and I don't care how many girls you shag, you need to be looking after a bloke, it's what you do.’ I laugh, nod, because it doesn't matter, really, does it, that he's wrong, and he starts to cough again.

“‘Thanks, Johnny boy... No'... Not got long, now, John... Stay, won't you, mate?’ And I nod, and he doesn't say much else, just mutters nonsense, really. Then he whispers, and it's a wonder I can hear it, but he says it. ‘Tell 'em, Johnny... Bye, mate... Cheers...’ and then he's gone, and I... I..." He trailed off, hadn't noticed the tears on his face. There was a long pause, longer than the rest, whilst John gathered his thoughts, composed himself some.

 

"I take his pulse, because it's habit, and I somehow hope that he’s fine, there's been a mistake, and it hasn't ended quite like that, but he's really dead and I wonder how I'm not, because after all we're in the open now and I've been a sitting duck for the past ten minutes.

“I look up, and the lads, the lads on the other side, they're staring at me. Their guns are down, they killed the guys that killed Nick- but I can hear the fighting everywhere else and it's not safe, it isn't, but I can't leave Nick there, not when he has a family who'd want to take him home. So I drag him, start to drag him, back towards the lads, and they get up, and they're about to come and help me, and then there's a series of shots…”

He stopped, hearing the blasts of gunfire all over again and despite being safe, curled around his lover further in their bed. His breath hitched with each bang which resounded in his head, fingers twitching as though he was picturing pressing the trigger himself.

 

“And I look up, and they're down. Both of them. One of them's dead, a bloody hole between his eyes, and the other's clutching at his side, staring at his friend, at me, and I turn, to defend, gun raised, ready, and then I jolt. I jolt, and I don't know why, I wonder what the fuck just happened, it was like when you're falling asleep and you fall in your head, and then there's pain, such God-awful pain, it... God, it hurts. It really hurts. My sight's going, already, and I take aim, because if I'm going out then so is the bastard who took me. I fire, and there's a shout, and he's down, and I laugh- and I realise why Nick laughed, because shit, I'm going to die, I'm actually going to die, and it isn't a hypothetical if any more, it's a when and the answer's soon, and then I just keep thinking well, hell, there's nobody here to hold my hand and take my messages- and Nick's little girl will be dressed in pink, and his Dad won't believe that he hadn't failed his son, and so I grit my teeth, fight the fire, and move.

“I unsheathe the knife- it's there for cutting rope, really, but there's no rope handy and there's only one thing I really need it for. I consider undoing my belt, fixing my teeth on it, something to bite down on, but there isn't time. I know the bullet went through, came out the other side, and that's fine, but there's still shrapnel, I know there is, so I brace myself and start to dig the shrapnel out, and I think I'm screaming, but I can't hear it. I manage that, and I was going to pack it, a rough field dressing, but there's blackness closing in, so I just lie back, and I'm praying- I don't believe in God but I'm praying because there's nothing else to do now, I'm pleading, "Please God, let me live, let me live, please, God." And then I'm begging because there's no Emmaline for me back home, and there's no little girl, but some day I hoped there would be and I want that chance, so I pray, I pray to everything I don't believe in because I'm not fucking done, okay? 

“And then I can't any more because it hurts, it hurts so bad, and there's nothing else, nothing else but how much it hurts, and the praying isn't working because I'm dying, I have to be, I must be, I'm a doctor, I know when someone's dying, and I can hear my pulse and it's so fucking slow. The adrenaline's good for nothing, now, it's killing me faster, pumping my blood out of me and onto the sand even quicker, and-" He broke off, heaved a breath, stopped to fight the slow, sickening roll of his stomach at the memory.

 

"That's where it stops. Really that's where it stops… In real life, after that, I'm dead; and then I'm not dead and I'm alive but broken, but it's fine... In the dreams... In the dreams, I'm not dying, and I don't understand how I'm not dying, because there's not even any blood left, and I look around, and there's... Everyone. Absolutely everyone. They're all dead. Nick and his Emmaline, and Andrews and Bennett and all the rest, and then there's Lestrade, and Dimmock and Donovan and Anderson and Stamford, and Molly and- And you're there, and you're breathing, but dying, and I can see you clearly, know exactly what it takes to fix you, but I can't move, and you're begging me.

“Praying to me, not to God or anyone else, to me, because it's my job to save you, and then you're shouting, screaming at me, and then you're dead, you're dead and bloody and then I'm dead too, but I'm trapped, I'm alive in my head and then... Then..." He swallowed again, choked back a whimper. "Then I wake up, and I can't move, because I'm trapped in the blankets and I think, just for a moment I think it's real, that I’m dead and alive all at once…”

 

_"You're not dead, John." Sherlock whispered dryly. "And... If there is a God, John... If there was someone I had to deem a greater being, I couldn't say it'd be you... But if there's someone I had to put my faith in... Someone I believed in, trusted in, wholly and completely..." He broke off, nuzzled against blonde hair, took a shaky breath, the images having affected him more than he’d expected. "If I had to… It’d be you. You're as much my right hand man as Nick was yours, and you’re my doctor, my soldier, my blogger… I enjoy your company and you make me eat when I need to and you don’t think I’m a freak- or not much anyway, and… Well. It just would. It’d be you… Johnny.”_

 


	2. Nightmares

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this started life as part of a roleplay, and things escalated from there rather quickly. As usual, all characters belong to Gatiss, Moffat and Sir ACD, who I'm sure would hate be for all the things I've made his boys do. 
> 
> This is unbeta'd, as it is dedicated to my darling beta, Nat. You're the Watson to my Holmes, Nat, and I believe in you. I think perhaps, some of this may be just a little familiar. It was, after all, mostly written during a two and a half hour flight that I wish I'd never had to take, following the best weekend of my life- that was bound to have just a hint of influence. I'd gift it to you, if I had the slightest inclination of how to go about doing so. You'll be unsurprised to know I don't, and as such, this is the best I can do. Happy one month, you idiot. <3

He twitched. He wriggled. He positively squirmed. 

Sherlock's heart seemed to skip a beat as his eyes fluttered open in surprise at John’s incessant movement and his gaze was met with a view of his lover's back- John was curled around himself, almost hugging his knees and trembling. As Sherlock watched, the blonde shifted again and let out a quiet whimper, pressing Sherlock to lean forward, encouraging him to lay an inquisitive kiss to one of the bumps of John's spine which was just visible over his nightshirt, curious as to the source of his apparent discomfort.

Sherlock’s lips never quite met their target as John rocketed to a sitting position all of a sudden, his breath coming in short uneven gasps of fear. Sherlock was left in a half pout, momentarily confused because his sleep addled brain could not process the data his eyes offered quickly enough- his love: frozen with panic, facing the wall and shivering, one hand running over his face to wipe away the sweat which had beaded at his temples.

John took a deep, shaking breath and then held it for a minute as his red rimmed eyes adjusted to the gloom. He didn't acknowledge the gentle hand which skimmed over his shoulders, long pale fingers brushing nonsensical calligraphy over tanned, marked skin. He focussed instead on assessing the happenings of the previous few moments.

Meanwhile, the owner of those long, pale fingers began to deduce the reasons behind John’s jack-in-the-box act. Increased heart rate and respiration rate, lightly coated in sweat, writhing in his sleep and-

"I didn't kick you, did I?"

It took Sherlock a moment longer to understand John’s words than it should have, as the last pieces of the puzzle fell smoothly into place. "No."

It was a simple response to a simple question; it was to the point, logical. Answer question with fact, empirical evidence and objective opinions: No, John's flinching had not at any point caused a foot to collide with a shin, or anything of the like. That was good, solid fact. 

Another solid fact was that it was taking every ounce of willpower Sherlock had to not push himself up far enough to press his lips to the fevered skin of John's back, to soothe him with soft kisses and mumbled reassurances which meant nothing and everything all at once... That was subjective. It was dangerous, even. Emotions: feeling. He'd done quite a bit of it before falling into the same slumber which had led his John into nightmares.

He hadn't anticipated  _feeling_  so much when he'd asked the question. He first wanted the answer, to solve the puzzle, the mystery that was the thick, knotted flesh in John's shoulder, as much a part of the man as tea, and toast and raspberry jam, and jumpers and cold hands and...

He forced that train of thought to a close, pushed the creaky cogs of his head into gear. “No. No, you didn’t kick me. ‘You okay?”

The response was not immediately forthcoming as the doctor was preoccupied: pressing his forehead to the cool paint of the wall, dragging yet another deep breath through dry, cracking lips, his brow crinkling with the effort of holding back a weak sob. “I... Yeah. I mean no, but.”

Sherlock swallowed, the gentle, calming stroke of his fingers becoming more insistent. “Here. Here.” He didn’t even bother to frown over his own repetition, just drew the trembling doctor down into his arms, sandy head tucked just barely beneath the detective’s chin, resting heavily against his shoulder. Each quivering breath kissed Sherlock’s throat, drew it’s own sympathetic shiver from the brunette’s own form.

They were still, quiet a moment more, each caught in their own thoughts:

John- On the horror of relieving the not-dead-dying twice in one night, on the overwhelming gratitude that Sherlock seemed to inspire in him a little more often than was strictly necessary, on the warmth emanating from his genius.

Sherlock- On the way John’s breath felt against his neck, the comfort of holding the other man safely against his chest, on the possibility of an experiment: How close would his John have to be for him to feel his breathing? How many breaths would _his John_ take in the time it took for Sherlock to duck his head and-

“Thank you.”

John’s voice was steadier now, and in the dark Sherlock smiled, hesitated for a moment. He very much wanted to be not-Sherlock for a moment, a second or two so that he would finally just be able to-

He did it.

Without even thinking about it, the process never fully making it’s way through his impossible brain, Sherlock’s lips collided with the mussed up grey-blonde mess of John’s hair. “It’s okay.” This a whisper, unbidden, slipping from his lips as easily as the kiss.

A brief thought on darkness as an anxiety drug, and then another press of lips- this time at the shorter man’s temple.

More followed, until his lips met John’s lips, neither quite sure who’d closed the gap. A soft smile, a gentle teasing bite at one achingly perfect cupid’s bow; and a slow, leisurely lick at one thin, chapped lower lip; and an hour filled with long drawn out minutes later, resulted in a quietly sated John, sleeping peacefully once more in his lover’s arms.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was resolutely awake, running through the evening and wondering exactly when their love making had moved from a means to a deeply satisfying end and an appropriate declaration for ‘feelings’, to being something he enjoyed, craved, even. He began to wonder at exactly what point the term ‘lover’ had become _accurate_ for what was between them.

 

His mind unconsciously settled on the question again, on John’s detailed response, the inadvertent trip into the man’s past. It hovered half way through the tale, like a stuck record, “I take his pulse, because it's habit, and I somehow hope that he’s fine, there's been a mistake, and it hasn't ended quite like that, but he's really dead and I wonder how I'm not...” Seconds later, his thoughts hitched alongside his breathing, as he recalled words he’d pushed away, which had been spoken in anger and hurt and confusion- before ‘lover’ had meant love and after falling meant landing. 

* * *

 

“You were _dead_ , Sherlock! I took your pulse, had to, had... You were dead. Dead and still and bloodied and broken, and-” An impossible stop, there was more to say, but the doctor simply hadn’t the breath to do so, and in the time it took to inhale, to gather air, Sherlock had begun his own tirade.

“Pulses lie, John! It isn’t hard- to control it, with practice, if you know how. It’s technically complex, but by no means impossible, provided you’re fully aware and anticipatory of risks and other such divergences from planning. You’re a doctor, John, you should have-” and this time it was Sherlock who ran out of oxygen, who simply couldn’t continue to shout any longer without another breath. Once more, the tables turned, John’s voice filling the empty silence Sherlock’s had left behind when it had ceased, although this time it was less of a yell and more of a plea. Words cracked in two beneath the strain of simply _feeling,_ and whole sentences had to be rewritten mid flow to accommodate the sudden loss of coherent thought which accompanied his despair, transporting him somewhere he really didn’t want to be.

“Should have _what_ , Sherlock?! Not worried when the only person I... When the man who... When Sherlock-Bloody-Holmes just lets himself drop, fall, and you, Sherlock, _you_ land and I have to watch and then there’s blood and so much noise and _no damned pulse, Sherlock!_ What should I have done?!”

“John, I didn’t...” A long pause. Too long. Irretrievable. He had no choice but to continue. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, John.” Far too unnecessary, he knew that the words held no weight.

Miraculously, John had let it go. Had allowed the half lie. The hurt may not have been meant, but it was ever present regardless and nothing could be done to retract it. A different tactic, then.

“Did it hurt you, Sherlock? The not-dying?” Unanticipated. Was that compassion in John’s voice, or... Perhaps just a silver sliver of hope? Hope that he’d hurt, he’d suffered as John had.

“More than I’d anticipated... It was... Even I thought for just a moment, that maybe I wouldn’t-...” Wouldn’t what? Return? Survive? Function, without his blogger, his doctor, his _friend?_ He simply didn’t know. And the not knowing caused him no small amount of distress, drove him helplessly down to the floor, long limbs curling and carrying him down, where he curled on the wooden boards in sorrowful aching self pity.

“You didn’t.” Didn’t die. Didn’t leave. Didn’t break. John didn’t know either, but the not knowing is a familiar feeling for a Watson: genius not being a family trait, and so when he joined Sherlock on the floor- kneeling in such a way that threatened to set his leg off again, so he could be close, rest a comforting hand on his partner’s knee- he went willingly.

“No.”

“Neither did I. I thought, too, but...” He didn’t know, either, anymore, which time he was talking about. His own almost-death, or living in the shadow of Sherlock’s.

“I know.” And suddenly he did know: Sherlock Holmes knew that he would never again leave John Watson’s side. Not in the manner with which they had last parted, at least.

“Don’t. Die, I mean. For me? Please.”

 

“... I promise.”

* * *

 

A foolish promise, perhaps, but the words which preceded it... John had been driven to check, himself. To lay warm, tanned fingers on a cold, pale wrist, and see for himself what he believed couldn’t be disputed.

Sherlock swallowed against the realisation- what he’d known, resolutely known with the kind of certainty he usually reserved for more important things which were rather less sentimental, such as the guilt of a serial killer or the location of the key to the lock which hadn’t been opened in more years than he had thoughts in an hour. Something he was impeccably sure of but hadn’t fully comprehended the significance of.

John would always want Sherlock to live. Always. He would always believe in his living, even when faced with the truth of his death, because it had been made plain that the truth was often rather more of a lie than it seemed, when it came to his own mortality. He would go on checking his pulse, assuring himself that his love was living and breathing and vitally alive, and he would never, ever accept the end of him.

He was loved. Loved to the extent that John would go on believing long after he was gone, that John Watson, somehow, somewhere, would always, always believe in Sherlock Holmes.

 

And Sherlock? Well Sherlock would always believe in his John.

Obviously. 


End file.
